The Imperfections

Still looking at her as the truck slowly rolls down my drive, I crack a smile. “Are you trying to remind me you’re pregnant in case I’m planning to kill you at the end of this car ride?”

Her cheeks flush and she looks out the passenger window. It’s too dark to see anything; she just wants to look away from me. “I could never kill someone who was pregnant,” she mutters.

Her subtle attempt at a guilt trip amuses the hell out of me. “But you could kill someone who wasn’t?”

She pauses then grumbles, “No, probably not.”

“Just probably?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she says, “Maybe if someone I loved was in danger and their life depended on me doing it. I don’t know.”

I consider her words as my house comes into view. She’s still looking out the side window and doesn’t see it, but I figure she’ll look ahead in a second. “That makes sense. I suppose most folks feel the same way.”

Her gaze snaps back to me since I left myself out of that supposition. “But not you?”

“Killing doesn’t do anything for me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I answer vaguely.

“That’s not what I asked. Have you ever killed anyone before?”

“Yep,” I answer as I ease my truck into park. We’re here now, but she’s still looking at me, transfixed.

“For real?” she asks, a thread of awe in her voice.

I look over at her, expecting to see some kind of dim horror, but it’s more mild fascination on her pretty, tearstained face. “Yep, for real,” I verify. “I was younger than you. First time was an accident, but it still cost a life.”

She seems to take on the weight of my admission, leaning back against the seat, looking a little worse for wear. “That’s terrible,” she says quietly. “That must have been so traumatic for you.”

For me? I cock an eyebrow. “Yeah, pretty sure the person it happened to wasn’t too happy about it, either.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “You said the first time. So, you’ve done it more than once?”

I look at her for a second, then pull the lever on my door and swing it open. I climb out of my truck without answering. “Come on,” I tell her. “Don’t waste your breath screaming, either. In case you didn’t notice on the way here, nearest neighbor’s about a mile up the road. I don’t expect you can scream loud enough for anyone to hear you.”

Alyssa doesn’t say anything, just opens the door and hops out, walking around the truck and following behind me like I’m someone trustworthy enough to follow.

“My dog’s probably asleep, but I expect we’ll wake him up,” I tell her, glancing back to make sure she’s still behind me. She walks so quietly, I can hardly hear her. Last thing I need is her darting off into the forest in the dead of night. I’d have to go after her and make sure she didn’t break her goddamn neck.

She’s still back there, though, looking at me with her big Bambi eyes. “Is it a friendly dog?”

“Friendly enough. Might be startled by the sight of a stranger coming into the house, though, so keep behind me until I let him know it’s okay.”

She follows me up the worn path to my front door and waits while I unlock it. Soon as the doorknob turns, Scout must wake up, because a little blur of black and tan fur comes barreling at the door to lick me hello. He skids to a stop when he sees I’ve got someone with me. He cocks his head then lets out a low, uncertain bark and looks up at her.

“She’s all right,” I tell him, bending down and petting the top of his head, right between his floppy ears.

“Aw, what a pretty dog,” Alyssa says, dropping her bag on the ground and kneeling so she’s closer to his height. “Hi, puppy. I’m Alyssa.”

Not much of a guard dog, apparently, because all it takes is the sound of her sweet voice luring him over for Scout to run right to her, tail wagging so hard his little body can’t quite move in a straight line.

Alyssa giggles and tips her head up as he paws at her nightie and starts licking her jaw while she pets him. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” she tells him. Looking up at me with a spark of pleasure in her eyes, she asks, “What’s his name?”

“Scout.”

The traitorous little mutt looks back at me at the sound of his name but stays with her, leaning against her legs while she rubs his side. “What kind is he? He’s gorgeous.”

“A mutt,” I offer. “Labrador and German Shepherd, mainly. Should be more keen on protecting me than kissing the face off an intruder,” I say pointedly. Scout ignores my criticism and licks the back of Alyssa’s hand, looking up at her all lovey-dovey.